


Polite Restraint

by EvilDime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Caries Alert, Consensual Kink, Fluff and Smut, Fun, M/M, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Rope Bondage, Sherlock in Heels, Spanking, Strappado, Sweet, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:32:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilDime/pseuds/EvilDime
Summary: John knows Sherlock can be restrained when he puts his mind to it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Catalyst](https://archiveofourown.org/works/812051) by [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick). 
  * Inspired by [Black and Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/748943) by [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick). 



> About two years ago, I feasted upon a number of Atlin Merrick's fics... and wondered what Sherlock 'behaving himself' after "The Catalyst" would look like, and also what it would be like if her "Black and Blue" John and Sherlock ever did bondage (which, in her verse, they very definitely never do, and for good reason). ...This might be a bit different from my usual style.

* * *

 

"Don't look so worried," Sherlock said. "We talked about it enough. This time, I really will be kind."

John nodded happily, obviously trusting the consulting detective's words.

Anderson looked at them like they had both lost it. Donovan snorted. Greg Lestrade rolled his eyes at the byplay, but as usual, he let them proceed against his better judgement. Because, as usual, he desperately needed Sherlock's help.

They examined the body of the elderly victim who appeared to have been killed by exposure to the cold within her own cosy, warm sitting room. Sherlock let loose with his usual string of deductions, identifying the method behind this peculiar murder within minutes, but hesitating on the identity of the killer. John watched carefully as Sherlock then talked to the family of the deceased. He asked only a couple of questions before inspiration seemed to strike, following the daughter's fairly snide comment about the victim's husband. Sherlock's eyes opened wide in realization.

"Obviously, Mr. Rutherford here is not going to miss her. She had four lovers on the side when she was still good-looking, and now that she wasn't, well, she was still not really paying her own husband much attention. Theirs was clearly a loveless marriage."

Lestrade approached, frowning. John kept silent.

Ignoring the daughter's cry of outraged denial, Sherlock proceeded to slaughter the dead woman's reputation, substantiating each deduction with enough detail to turn the daughter white and silent while her boyfriend awkwardly tried to console her. Outwardly calm, John observed Mr. Rutherford, sitting equally calmly in his wheelchair. Finally, when Lestrade looked ready to have a conniption, Sherlock was winding down with "...and your reaction tells me all I need to know about that."

Across the room, Anderson was pursing his lips, answered by Donovan with a condescending I-knew-it smirk. Sherlock, behaving himself? As if!

"A former lover did it," Sherlock announced to a clearly horrified Lestrade who'd listened with rising outrage to Sherlock expounding on the many ways the deceased had cheated on her husband – in detail. "She refused to get a divorce and marry him instead, citing his lack of funds. Look into her dating history – it's all recorded in her diary which she is still faithfully keeping at age 74, witness the smudge of ink on her left index finger – and find the man with the annoying cat and the propensity to recycle everything. Literally everything, even his girlfriends' nicknames and presents - just check the inscription inside her bracelet. - John, let's go."

"A word, Sherlock." Lestrade took the two men from the room containing the stunned family; looking back before he closed the door behind him, he could see the daughter hugging Mr. Rutherford, both of them trying to comfort each other.

* * *

In the adjoining room, the moment the door was closed, John jumped on Sherlock and hugged him for all he was worth. "Love, I am so proud of you!"

Lestrade's jaw dropped.

Sherlock ignored him and smiled at John, obviously pleased. "I did promise to try."

"And you did a wonderful job! Really, you exceeded my expectations today."

Lestrade cut in with a growled "In which way, exactly, is the verbal evisceration of a murder victim in front of her family a reason to be proud?"

John beamed. "Greg, he showed such _restraint_! Surely you were as impressed as I was?"

Sherlock leaned in to kiss John while Lestrade tried to figure out what John was playing at. He couldn't. "What kind of game are you playing?" he demanded, scowling.

John looked honestly puzzled. "What do you mean? Sherlock did great! Didn't you, love?" Smiling smugly, Sherlock kissed him again. John's hand wandered to Sherlock's wrists, tracing something Lestrade couldn't see from this angle, which made Sherlock moan in a way Lestrade really never wanted to hear again.

It didn't seem they were currently available for more comments, much less receptive to his entirely justified complaints. He gave it one more try. "John! You, at least, are supposed to care more about the people he -"

A long moan, this time from the good doctor's direction, cut off his tirade.

Lestrade threw up his hands in frustration. "Argh! The two of you are hopeless!" Cursing up a storm, he left the room, angrily slamming the door shut for good measure.

* * *

After a long while, the two men separated again.

"Lung cancer, maybe another four or five weeks?" Sherlock asked John to verify his deduction.

"It's always hard to tell, but yes, I'd say no more than a month before he dies," John answered quietly. "And his daughter would only have found out how much he loved her after his death if not for you." He kissed Sherlock, once again expressing his utter devotion to man and brain through the kiss.

Due to an excessive amount of traffic, they had taken the tube to the crime scene, and unknowingly been seated right next to the victim's daughter, who was telling her boyfriend all about how she hated her father for always being so cold to her wonderful mother, and how she wished it was him that had died because then, at least, she would inherit. Now that she knew about the many ways her mother had wronged her father, there might still be time for her to fix her relationship with Mr. Rutherford before he died.

Though, of course, she did not know about the cancer.

"It was an act of kindness not to mention all the obvious signs of the disease," John said carefully. He knew Sherlock still felt insecure about which details to include and which ones to leave out. "It is Mr. Rutherford's decision to tell his family about that, not ours. And while it was not kind, per se, to make the daughter aware of her mother's faults, it was good of you to antagonize her enough that she simply had to side with her father against you. This way, they may still build some kind of relationship before his death. I meant what I said before, love: I am so, so proud of you!"

The radiant smile on Sherlock's face told John that he had gotten it right. Sherlock still needed to hear these things. And by god, John was happy to tell him.

* * *

To be fair, the first cases after Sherlock's new resolution had not gone quite so swimmingly.

"...and, of course, this woman has been stealing from you for weeks. Her new earrings tell me that she is not feeling overly guilty about it, nor desperately in need of the money- "

"Sherlock."

"- and while she is obviously not the killer, you might still want to get another assistant for-"

"Sherlock!"

" _What_ , John? I am a little busy here."

"Look at her wrists!" John hissed urgently.

Sherlock faltered. John could see the moment he consciously took in the bruises on the woman's wrists, indicating a struggle against the grip of too-strong hands. He watched Sherlock scan the woman with a new appreciation, going from her defensive stance to the way she favoured her left leg to the down-cast eyes and hunched shoulders. And, especially, noting the way she always kept her partner in view from the corner of her eyes, and flinched at any sudden movement.

"Madam," he finally said in a slightly odd voice, "when your partner abuses you, stealing from him does not solve the problem. The only action that will permanently improve things is to leave him, which I highly recommend." Sherlock blinked and John could see the puzzle's solution snapping into focus for him. "He did just kill your brother for finding out about the abuse and telling him to stop it. I believe that makes it rather imperative for you to get over this dependence and put an adequate amount of distance between you and this man."

John quickly stepped into the way of the suspect trying to make a run for it while the woman looked utterly shell-shocked. A moment later, Lestrade was upon them with several officers and the man was led away, cursing all the way. Luckily, someone was already with the distraught woman, so John was free to confront Sherlock. He dragged Sherlock aside quickly and rounded on him.

"Dammit Sherlock, what was that?!"

Sherlock pouted.

"I need answers here, Sherlock. You always see everything! How could you have missed the signs of domestic violence? They were clear as day!"

"..."

"I can't hear you! Would you just speak up, for fuck's sakes! Use. Your. Words."

"I _said_ , I've been trying to do what you told me to do!"

Stunned, John rocked back on his heels. He opened and closed his mouth several times, then said in a strangled voice: "How do you figure that?"

"You said not to deduce everything about people. You said I must restrain myself, that my telling people everything I deduce was cruel and hurtful. So I tried to ignore the personal details that might not be salient to the case!"

John shook his head, as if by denying the colossal misunderstanding, it would just go away. Resignedly, he explained. "Sherlock, no. I do not want you to stop looking. Jesus, you would not be Sherlock Holmes if you didn't notice every little thing! Telling you to stop  _seeing_ would be like telling a bird not to fly. Surely your magnificent brain would start eating itself  if left idle!"

"Then what...?"

John sighed. "I merely meant not to  _speak out_ about every detail you notice. You may – no, you  must! - notice everything, you always do, it is what makes you so very special and so very, very amazing," he said fondly. "But you must  _not_ share all of your observations with the people you meet."

John caught Sherlock's eyes and held them. "I know you know how to hurt people. I've seen you purposefully use your most damaging deductions against Anderson and Donovan many times. You may struggle with events that are utterly outside your emotional experience – such as the loss of an unborn child -, but apart from that, your estimation of how hurtful a fact may be to a person is scarily astute. _Those_ are the deductions I want you to hold back. If they are necessary for solving a case, tell Lestrade; if they are relevant to a post mortem, tell Molly. If they are _not_ relevant to other people – tell me. _I_ want to know."

"You do?" There was a slight hint of doubt in Sherlock's voice.

"Always," John reassured him. "Your brain is one of the things that so attracted me to you. ...Though I must say your body is quite nice, as well," he added for levity.

Luckily, Sherlock quietly agreed to drop the serious discussion for now. "Admit it, you just want me for my smarts," he teased.

"Of course. I suffer through the sex merely to humour you," John dead-panned.

"Well, how about humouring me some more, then?" Sherlock asked huskily.

"Get a room, you two!" Lestrade interrupted, then had to bodily keep John from dragging Sherlock home to the flat with a quick "Splendid idea!"

" _After_ you have told me why Ms. Wellington has started kicking the suspect once we'd taken him down."

* * *

Several weeks had passed since the Brutal Boyfriend case. John and Sherlock had talked about precisely what Sherlock was supposed to keep quiet on and why, with Sherlock slowly learning to separate the relevant bits and pieces for a case from the irrelevant ones and beginning to keep the latter ones back to tell John in private. The case with the Rutherfords was the final proof for John that Sherlock really was considering emotions nowadays. Needless to say, his appreciation of the fact left both of them thoroughly satisfied an hour or three after they got home.

A few weeks later, they were back to interviewing suspects for yet another case.

"Excoriated wrists again," John muttered quietly.

Sherlock looked wistful for a moment, then seemed to shrug it off. "Yes, but see the collar he wears underneath that turtle neck? And the way his shirt rides up to display the bite marks above his hip? Those marks were obviously consensual." Sherlock absent-mindedly caressed a similar mark on his own throat. "He didn't do it," he stated confidently. "He wouldn't have wanted her dead when their last session left him so thoroughly satisfied."

"So he is...?"

"A masochist, yes, and quite devoted to his mistress according to the collar she gifted him with. He is still wearing it even now, after her death."

"Huh." This was something he and Sherlock just didn't do. John knew Sherlock liked pain, but that's all it ever was. Signs of ownership, yes, in a manner of speaking - Sherlock did tend to display any new bruises and lash marks proudly; but certainly no restraints. Just the pain, which for some reason, Sherlock craved and John enjoyed giving him. He supposed that made him a sadist, but he had never wasted much time considering terminology.

In the past, John had used restraints, blindfolds and the occasional gag with some of his partners, but then it had usually been coupled with pleasure rather than pain. Merely a means of intensifying the experience. Now he wondered, though, if Sherlock would enjoy having his pain heightened by being blindfolded or maybe tied up. John had said no to the idea at first and Sherlock had agreed, but what if Sherlock would actually like to try it?

He opened his mouth to ask, then remembered where they were and who all was listening. Not that Sherlock had any problems sharing their sex life - or at least the marks it left on him - with all of New Scotland Yard, but John remembered the traumatized look Greg still got whenever Sherlock displayed new obvious injuries, and decided to leave it for later.

"So who did it then?" he asked, determinedly shoving their own kinks to the back of his mind.

Sherlock threw him a quizzical glance at his curt tone, but let it go in order to focus on the fine murder in front of him.

It was a locked room, too.

* * *

Later that day, Sherlock noticed that John was being unusually quiet. He seemed to be deep in thought about something. And if he had to guess - which Sherlock never did, he could deduce, after all... he'd certainly say it had to do with the partner of their latest murder victim. But of course, if it was something John wanted to share, he would talk about it on his own. Sherlock would not pry.

Except he did want to know. And hadn't John said he was always allowed to deduce, as long as he did not share his deductions with other people besides John?

So Sherlock took a longer, proper look at John. He thought back to his own longing at the sight of the rope burns on the man's body, and then to John's gruff voice right after the discussion about tender wrists and signs of ownership. So was it the collar that had thrown his beloved doctor for a loop, or the rope marks?

Sherlock knew John did not like the idea of bondage. His partner wanted to know at all times that Sherlock was there of his own free will, that he was free to move away from the pain - or into it - as he pleased. But... weren't they long past that? He trusted John not to hurt him more than he wanted to be hurt. Surely, after months of testing the limits together, John trusted him, as well? Trusted him to say stop _before_ it got too much, to keep talking, to let him know exactly what was going on? 

He did. Sherlock was sure of it. So maybe John really just wasn't interested in the idea of bondage. That was a reasonable enough hypothesis... but for the fact that John's eyes had kept straying to the man's wrists and collar with something quite different from revulsion.

In fact, even now, John was looking at Sherlock's wrists with speculative eyes... And suddenly Sherlock laughed.

"John, you need not worry that you will fail me!"

John looked up, startled. "Beg your pardon?"

"If you do decide to tie me up," Sherlock clarified. "You know I can get out of just about any type of restraint. Naturally, you are worried that trying bondage on me will fail due to the inability of a rope or cuff to hold me. But you have not taken your own effect on me into consideration. Tell me, have I ever seemed sufficiently coherent to talk, much less pick a complicated lock while you are focusing all of your wicked talent on me?"

John pursed his lips. "It is entirely unfair that you can solve the next problem when I haven't even gotten past the first one yet."

"That being...?" Sherlock asked, smirking at John.

"If you are even interested in the idea of bondage, and how to ask you that."

Sherlock blinked. "I thought that would have been obvious."

John glared at him. "You Sherlock. Me John. How often do we need to have this conversation?"

"No really, it does not take a genius to notice..."

"Not making it better, sweetheart."

"But it's obvious!"

John growled, annoyed. Sherlock shivered. It was a good kind of shiver. Hearing John's growl was like discovering that the dog you'd been petting was actually a wolf who would happily eat you up. The zing of excitement travelled all the way down Sherlock's spine and started a nice tingle between his butt cheeks. Still, he did not want to make his little love too god-awfully mad, so he eventually relented.

"Let's see. I get off on being held down with a riding crop between my teeth. I enjoy it when you _make me_ do things. I love forms of pain that leave obvious marks. I enjoy being on display for you, yours to look at, yours to touch. And let's not forget that it was _your_ rule not to allow any bondage. Yes, John, I rather like the idea of being tied down and helpless before you."

John had been listening with wide eyes and his breath came in short pants. "Your sarcasm sounds far sexier than it has any right to."

Sherlock walked over to where John was sitting, circled the armchair and bent down to whisper in his doctor's ear: "Just imagine how much hotter it will be if you tie me up while I'm wearing nothing more than the new pair of high-heeled boots I bought yesterday."

"New boots?" John nearly squeaked. "What type?"

"They are shiny, smooth red patent leather. They wrap around my legs like they were tailored to them, and the heels are so tall you will need to bend my head down far below my thighs in order for me to blow you."

John's pupils were dilated with lust, a soft moan making its way past his lips. "Show me."

"Ah-ah," Sherlock said, wagging a finger playfully. "Only when you have decided that you do want to tie me up. Those are the type of boots that look best on a man tied up for his partner's pleasure." Sherlock spoke with his usual confidence, even though they both knew Sherlock had no experience at all with bondage. He sounded eager to change that, though.

"Holy Mother of Fuck." John knew he should probably say something more profound, but this was the best his brain was currently capable of. The image of Sherlock in shiny, knee-high red boots with a tall heel, tied up in the bedroom...

Tied up to what?

"Right." John shook his head like a dog emerging from the Thames. "I have a few errands to run, then." He got up, grabbed his wallet and phone and headed out the door with a determined set to his shoulders. John Watson was a man with a mission.

* * *

Three hours later, Mrs. Hudson was shouting up the stairs: "Sherlock! What is all that noise?" A moment later, she came through the door and looked startled to find Sherlock sitting calmly on the sofa.

"I am entirely innocent," Sherlock defended himself, affecting a thoroughly wounded look. "Why must you always accuse me if there is something wrong?"

"Because it usually _is_ you, love," John commented drily, emerging from the bedroom with the power drill held fast in his right hand. "Sorry for the noise, Mrs. Hudson."

"It is quite alright," Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. "I am sure you had a good reason for it."

Sherlock pouted.

"I did, in fact," John said. Mrs. Hudson did not seem to mind that he shared no further details about said reason. John sometimes wondered to what point their kind, steadfast, I-used-to-be-an-exotic-dancer housekeeper was actually aware of their love life. He always decided in the end that he would rather not know, though, thank you very much.

"As long as the walls are still standing when you are done, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, winking at him.

"I shall try my utmost," John promised solemnly.

Then both of them laughed and Mrs. Hudson returned to her flat.

"She clearly favours you," Sherlock sulked.

"That is because I'm just so loveable," John noted wisely.

"You are, at that," Sherlock conceded with a smile.

John blushed.

"So, I see you are done being a craftsman. What else did you buy?"

John had forbidden Sherlock to enter the bedroom on pain of no whipping for a week while he was setting things up. Sherlock had dutifully stayed out, though the curiosity had nearly killed him. He _knew_ John had gotten hooks to tie him up to, but how many, and where exactly had he placed them?

It had been torture sitting passively in the living room while John worked, waiting for the slow progression of drilling sounds to tell him about the number and placement of the hooks. There were six, two in the ceiling, two in the back wall, and one on either side.

Sherlock was hard the entire time he waited, and he was now officially done waiting. He stood up and got right into John's personal space. Grasping his chin and forcing John's eyes up to meet his, he ordered: "Tell me."

John gulped. Sherlock towering over him, looking down at him like that, did funny things to his insides. "For some reason I want to just bend you over the table and fuck you right now," he said. Then blinked. That was not what he had been about to say.

Sherlock smirked. "While I am pleased to hear that, it does not answer my question."

"Noticed that, have you?" John snarked, but then relented: "I would rather show you than tell you, to be honest. It looks much better on than off."

"You bought me clothes?" Sherlock asked curiously. "Sexy clothes?"

Now it was John's turn to smirk. "Very sexy. And unless my imagination upon hearing you talk about the new boots was misguided, it should go well with them."

"Show me."

"No. Go to the bedroom and strip, wait for me only in those boots.  _Then_ we can see about the new things."

Sherlock dominated most every conversation in his day-to-day life. However, when his little doctor commanded him into the bedroom, he hurried to comply. It was very much in his best interests, he had learned, to fall in line and keep his sweetheart happy. Also, obeying John's commands brought a sense of quiet fulfilment he enjoyed immensely.

John's orders were usually easy to follow, anyway. Mostly they consisted of things he would have happily done on his own, too. Like getting on his knees for his lover, or bringing him the whip. Or hurry into the bedroom, get undressed and slip into these amazing new red patent boots. Sherlock suppressed a moan as he did up the last buckle. The leather moulded itself to his calves like a second skin, hugging and supporting him gently.

He slowly straightened from his crouch, confidence growing with every inch. This was different from the loud, arrogant confidence he carried around like a shield in his encounters with the police and other dumb pedestrians. This was a quiet, graceful confidence grown from the knowledge that there was a man on the other side of the bedroom door even now, waiting for him to get dressed in these boots, one who appreciated everything about Sherlock: His brilliant mind as much as his body, lean and pale though it may be. One who was guaranteed to appreciate these boots as much as Sherlock did, if not more.

Sherlock's confidence carried him into the right half of his bedroom, opposite the bed, situated at the point where any ropes spanned between the gleaming new hooks decorating their walls and ceiling were bound to cross. He stood with his arms behind his back, shoulders squared, feet hip-width apart with the high heels accentuating his long legs and straight posture.

As if on cue, the door opened and John stepped in. He was still in the same clothes, though he was carrying a plastic bag at his side.

The good doctor was hit by the sight of Sherlock in those boots like a Loony Toon by a sledgehammer. He stopped abruptly, bag falling out of his hands, grabbing the door frame instead to keep from stumbling. "Sherlock," he croaked, "love, these boots are _amazing_! You look so very, very hot!" 

Sherlock smiled coyly and minutely shifted his stance, hip now enticingly thrust out to the left. John's eyes tracked the motion with intense focus, mouth opening slightly to let a quiet moan escape. "You have a present for me, love?" Sherlock asked in a husky voice and John Watson is gone, just _gone_. 

"I... yes," he managed after a couple of very long moments spent in adoration. He lifted the heavy bag with his left hand and dove in with the right, surfacing a few seconds later with several coils of a long, narrow rope. "Here, will you thread that through the hook in the ceiling for me?"

Sherlock obligingly took hold of one end of the rope and reached for the hook. His deliciously slender, yet strong body stretched, the strain of balancing on the thin heels giving muscles in his thighs, his butt and even his lower back extra definition while his upper body was put on glorious display by the need to bridge the distance up to the gleaming metal hook.

Then it was done, the rope securely pulled through the hook, both ends now trailing the floor, and Sherlock's body relaxed back into a more comfortable pose.  "There, love," he said, turning around to face John again  and showing off his erection straining up, up.  "All done. Can I have my present now?"

"Yes you may," the good doctor agreed,  swallowing drily before taking a piece of red patent leather  from the bag and critically comparing it to Sherlock's boots. Letting out a relieved sigh, he  pulled the item out all the way. "It matches," he said. "Thank goodness."

Sherlock eyed the item critically. It looked like a long sleeve, only it was too wide and there were straps attached to the opening. 

"It's a monoglove," John explained. "This will look gorgeous on you."

Sherlock's mouth fell open in a silent "Oh". He knew what a monoglove was - of course he did - but he had never actually worn one, nor even been that close to it. He had never had any thoughts about monogloves, good or bad, but looking at it now, he  _ wanted  _ it. "Put it on me," he pleaded. "John, I want this. Put it on me." He turned around and presented his arms to John, aligned perfectly up to the elbow. 

John felt his own erection pushing angrily at the cloth daring to separate it from that glorious body. John quite agreed, he needed to be closer to his Sherlock, this lithe being with the gorgeously flexible body.  Sherlock's elbows were pressed close together as though it were easy, his muscles barely straining. John stroked his hands over those lovely muscles, down the arms, caressing the hands and bending down to kiss those long artist's fingers.  Sherlock gave a whimper of appreciation. 

Then it was time. Slowly, John slipped the glove onto Sherlock's hands, pulled it up his arms until the fingers were all the way down, hitting the end.  He took a moment to stroke Sherlock's arms through the patent leather, admiring the curve of the red material around his detective's slender limbs.  Then he stepped around his lover and fixated the  monoglove with two straps around his chest.  "Beautiful," he sighed. Taking another moment to caress Sherlock's chest because it was  _ right there, _ John found he was entirely on board with this bondage idea now. 

Ignoring the rope Sherlock had kindly looped through the ceiling hook for now, John snatched up two shorter ones, discarding the now empty bag in a corner by the door. It gave a little muffled clatter, reminding John of the spare pair of lister scissors he had gotten at the chemist's. Just in case. 

He wound one rope around Sherlock's left leg, binding it to the hook in the left bedroom wall. The right leg was pulled towards the opposite wall, forcing Sherlock into a wide stance. Sherlock went along with everything, observing John's gestures with heated glances and panting at each touch.

Finally, John took hold of the rope Sherlock had hung for him, threading one end through the hoops attached to the monoglove and pulling on the other, forcing Sherlock to bend forward as his arms were pulled up behind his back.  Sherlock commented the new position with a gusty moan. 

"If anything is uncomfortable, let me know," John told him sternly. 

"Yes John," Sherlock breathed obediently  as he tried to find his balance. 

John tied the rope off. "You can lean into it now if you want." 

Sherlock carefully trusted his weight to the rope and moaned when he quickly encountered the end of his wriggle room.  He could lean into the rope, yes, but it put pressure on his shoulders.  He could lean back a little, but his balance quickly became compromised as he did. He had just enough freedom to rock back and forth a couple of hands, and that was it. 

Sherlock liked the monoglove. It felt like being held, all warm and snug and unrelenting.  Like the arms of his little doctor holding his hips still as he spanked him... "Hit me, please," he  blurted out. "Please, John, I need it, please hurt me!"  He raised his head to look pleadingly at his lover.  His mind was silent now, giving only information that was relevant to his pleasure, and nothing else.

John was ready for him. He had already gotten the riding crop from the box and was preparing to walk around him. First, though, he put his hand underneath Sherlock's chin and  forced his mouth up to meet his own in a bruising kiss that left both men panting for breath.  "You look so  _ hot _ like this," John gushed.  "You should see - actually..." He quickly walked to the corner of the room and got the big standing mirror. He dragged it over, leaning it up against the bed so Sherlock could see himself in it. 

Sherlock looked at his reflection, and here is what he saw:  tousled black curls over eyes blown wide with lust and a mouth with lips reddened from a fierce kiss. Behind the head, sleek red patent leather hugging his stretched-out arms, suspended from a tawny rope. Below, his erection bumping against his abs, highlighted nicely by the tense position.  And further down: those lovely new boots, still as amazing as the first time he had seen them in the shop. Only now they were even better, for they were matched by the monoglove trapping his arms, and equally decorated with ropes keeping him immobile. And all of it spread out for his good doctor's viewing pleasure. 

Sherlock felt a tiny bead of sweat forming between his shoulder blades as he shivered with pure need. "John, please..."

"I've got you, love," John said, finally stepping behind him and stroking his ass with the riding crop.

"Yes, John, yes," Sherlock babbled, abandoning rational thought and letting his mouth run on as John had taught him. There was no need to watch his words here, no older brother to censor each wrong deduction, no Yard to cut him down for being a freak. Only John, who had seen him at his best and at his worst and still wanted him.  He was allowed to say anything he wanted to John; his lover wanted to hear it all.  He'd said so. 

But for now, no more words were needed. The crop came down on his left arse cheek and Sherlock flinched at the pain. Then the warmth of the hit spread all throughout him, pain vanishing under a flood of hot desire.  He pushed his arse back out, silently begging for more. John granted his wish. 

Hit after hit rained down on Sherlock's unprotected behind, each one painting a searing line of fire through his entire being, and each one  stoking the fire roaring behind his ears, in his balls, through his chest. 

Then the pain took over again and Sherlock pulled away. John immediately stopped, but that was not what Sherlock wanted. He shook his head, trying to shake off the confusion.

"Love?" John questioned softly. "What do you need?"

"More," Sherlock determined.

"Are you sure?" Even though John was standing behind him and Sherlock was hanging his head, not looking at the mirror, he was sure of the frown on his face. Obviously, his lips and the rest of his body were speaking different words at John and his wonderful lover did not know which ones to trust. 

"I need you to... make me," Sherlock said as he puzzled it out.

"I can do that," John said slowly. "Are you quite sure, though?"

Now Sherlock did look up. John's eyes in the mirror were focused on his with an intense heat and desire that made Sherlock want to take cover and hide and launch himself at John and crawl into him and never let go. The broken sound that his throat made was not a whimper, nor was it a moan. But it spoke loud and clear of what he wanted.

Once again, John obliged him. Crowding close against Sherlock's side, he took a firm hold of the detective's hips, dropping the riding crop and using his bare hand instead to rain a fury of sharp, quick slaps down on him.

John watched closely even after Sherlock's head dropped back down between his shoulders. He observed the curve of Sherlock's back, the shivering of his shoulders, his legs, the way he could not seem to decide between trying to draw away from John or humping the air.

John loved this, the trust Sherlock was showing him by submitting to him in this way. Trusting John to know when it would be enough and stop before it was too much. Trusting him to break him and put him back together. Trusting him with this, with his body, his lust, his shameless and guiltless abandon.

John loved every bit of it, loved every inch of his Sherlock, his beautiful detective. And right now, part of him could not understand why he was not inside Sherlock where he belonged. Soon, he told himself. Sherlock was not done yet, he needed to give him just a little bit more.

Four, five more hits did it. Sherlock let out a moan that ended in a hitched, shaky breath. John gave him one more hard, beautifully precise hit on top of a mark left by the riding crop. Sherlock cried out and heaved a couple of loud, wet sobs.

John leaned into Sherlock's burning arse, arms wrapping around his torso and his cheek pressed into his love's back. "Enough, my sweet?"

"Yes," Sherlock sobbed. John held him as he cried until he trailed off, then slowly got his breathing back under control. "Yes," Sherlock said again, then. He looked up and John, feeling the motion, also looked up to meet his eyes. "Thank you, John."

John slowly straightened. "Now," he said, very deliberately trailing his hands over Sherlock's still hard erection as he withdrew them. "I seem to remember you mentioning the right angle for a blow job in this constellation."

A shudder went through Sherlock at the thought and his erection twitched up violently.

"Think you can bend down far enough?" John asked, a challenge in his voice.

"One way to find out," Sherlock answered, lifting his hands further up to lower his upper body another few inches. He stopped when his nose came face to face with the zipper of John's trousers. Grinning wickedly, he nosed at John's hand which had just popped open the button, shoving it away, and took the zipper between his lips.

"Oh, that is..." John broke off. "Good grief, that is hot." He sounded utterly frazzled and not sure how to deal with the hotness that was Sherlock Holmes going after his prize. Not that anyone could blame him, for the view was... Angels would have wept. The only one there was John Watson, though, and he decided the best way to deal was to bury his hands in the consulting detective's gorgeous black hair and hold on as best he could.

Sherlock had finished with the zipper and was now struggling to pull down the trousers with his teeth. John had the presence of mind to extract one of his hands from Sherlock's hair and help push the thing down, and the pants right along with it. Sherlock huffed, like he wanted to say "I could have done that." He didn't, though, opting instead to go straight for the now freed object of his desires.

Now John Watson is no slouch when it comes to stamina.  However, anyone would have been driven to the edge by the sight of Sherlock in his high-heeled boots and matching monoglove, body bent and arms stretched taut by the ropes holding him in place for his lover's  pleasure.  So it was a surprise to exactly no-one that John only lasted a few minutes with Sherlock's lips wrapped hot around him. 

"Sherlock, love," he gasped out. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock's answer was to slide all the way down on John's cock and swallow.

"Aaah!" John Watson yelled and came and came down his lover's throat.

For a  few moments  afterwards, he just stayed there, hands buried in Sherlock's hair and cock in his mouth, panting and willing his heart to slow down.  Then Sherlock softly let the fading erection slip from between his lips and lifted his head to smile up at  his lover. "Bondage is as much fun as I imagined, John."

John instinctively wanted to hug him. Not easily done with Sherlock's  head  the height of John's  chest and his arms still stretched out behind his back. Oh, and his erection still hard and needy between his legs, John was sure.  "What can I do for you now, my love?" he asked gently. 

"Just... put your hand on me," Sherlock asked. 

"With the greatest pleasure," John replied and once more went to stand behind Sherlock. The sight was still as glorious as ever: Sherlock's arse stretched open, vulnerable before him, and the red of the glove and boots  highlighting the glowing red marks upon the cheeks.  "One day I'm going to fuck you like this," he announced. 

Sherlock squirmed and moaned at the mental image.

John was not sure how he would manage, as Sherlock in heels was not built to be fucked by John in his usual flats. But he was sure they could work something out. Something that did not involve John standing on a box and feeling utterly ridiculous, that was.

Determinedly  _ not  _ sharing that picture with Sherlock who still hadn't come  and wouldn't that just be cruel, John crowded up against Sherlock's back, pressing his softening cock between the man's legs and reached around to his front. He took a good hold of the hard, hot flesh and started stroking it slowly and deliberately. 

Sherlock took a couple of shuddering breaths;  for a moment,  John thought he might be about to burst into tears from sensory overload.  But then, a thoroughly indecent sound emerged from Sherlock's throat instead, curling John's toes and lighting up his chest with the pure, primal pleasure of it.  He stroked harder, faster, and the sound just kept coming, heading from deep and primal towards raw and dangerous. 

And then the sound broke, and hot come shot over John's hand, streaked Sherlock's belly and chest, and fell in a pitter-patter of little droplets to the floor.  "That's it, love," John encouraged, stroking Sherlock through it.  Finally, he just held the spent cock in his hand and bent back down to lean his cheek against Sherlock's back, both of them breathing together. 

They stayed like that for an indeterminate amount of time.

Eventually, John thought Sherlock's arms were probably mighty sore by now, so he grudgingly convinced himself to get up and release the man. Sherlock straightened up with a relieved sigh, and once the monoglove was off, he wriggled his fingers to get them moving as they should once more. He rolled his shoulders a few times, bent his head to the side until something slid back into place with a loud _pop._ Then he shot a delighted grin at John. "I do believe we are both okay with bondage."

"Your powers of deduction keep amazing me," John replied drily. Rather than be annoyed, Sherlock just laughed, loud and carefree. Then he slung an arm around John's shoulders and dragged him over to the bed. They got rid of John's clothes together, falling into bed and snuggling into each other, determined to never ever let go of what they had.

For it has to be said, what John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had was more than either man had ever dared to imagine in his wildest dreams. And knowing these two, it would only get better.

  
  


~ The End ~

**Author's Note:**

> I first started this about two years ago, but got stuck at some point because I can't quite get a good grasp on Atlin's presentation of John and Sherlock. There's a lot more open loving and being cute and flowery language than I'm used to writing, more puns, POV shifts, vivid imagery and exquisite word choices which as a non-native speaker I might just never quite have the vocab to match. Last week, I finally decided to hell with it, they *will* be different, so what? Hence the style in this fic is not my usual, but it's also worlds apart from Atlin's. ...At least the fic is no longer stuck with a half-life on my harddrive. Please let me know if this worked for you. : )


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